


What People Do

by miasmatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Sick John, Sickfic, Trust, Trust Issues, saying sorry is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John will be fine, but Sherlock has trouble believing that. Mycroft isn't especially helpful, or is he? Set early in their relationship, no slash, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What People Do

Sherlock hated not being in control. He pretended to have come to this conclusion after thorough analysis, but in the end, he simply admitted to the state of teeth-gnashing frustration Mycroft had condemned him to. All he could do was sit and wait, and he knew that his brother knew how much he despised this, this being deprived of options and, above all, information. He knew this was meant as his punishment. The waiting room was the epitome of boredom with its featureless walls, the identical chairs bolted to the walls, the plain linoleum floor and, oh God, the brainless, tattered magazines on the featureless, gray table. Sherlock couldn't help but be offended by the intricate, deliberate boredom the room oozed, as though it had been designed specifically to bore the mind out of him. The only interesting thing had happened when the hospital shift had changed and a gaggle of nurses had spilled from the door at the far end chatting and blabbering until they rounded a corner and drifted out of earshot. But that had been four hours ago. He sighed, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on something, anything really, details of a case maybe, but his consciousness slipped off anything he put before it. This was most unusual. Sherlock tapped his foot in frustration and caught himself. That, too, was unusual. But then, what else was this but torture? One could be expected to break under torture.  
  
Finally, the door opened. Mycroft and one of the doctors, he assumed, stepped out, deep in hushed conversation, and the door closed as quickly as it had opened. Sherlock jumped up, putting all of his penned up energy into the few yards between the waiting room and the room which Mycroft had denied him. When they saw him storming up, the doctor and Mycroft exchanged a few more words, shook hands, and the doctor retreated into the dim corridor beyond with a last furtive glance at the angry figure in black stooping down on Mycroft Holmes. But Mycroft had the advantage of decades of dealing with an unruly sibling. "What do you think you're doing, little brother", he said calmly, which deflated Sherlock slightly, if only for a moment. "Coming to see a friend of mine, should he be alive still", hissed Sherlock, teeth bared in what could not be mistaken for a grin. Mycroft caught his arm and deftly steered him away from the door behind which, Sherlock knew, John lay, or his body. Sherlock was tempted to make this a contest of strength, though he had never been able to beat his brother, he was pretty sure today he would have the advantage. He certainly had built up enough rage to take him on. Mycroft must have sensed this because his grip on Sherlock grew softer and could have, in another pair of brothers, be mistaken for support.  
"Sherlock."  
Infuriated, Sherlock broke free of Mycrofts hold and started towards the door again.  
"He's alive."  
Sherlock stopped dead where he was but didn't turn. Though almost imperceptible, Mycroft noticed the slight droop in his brother's head and knew it for what it was. Sherlock was listening. "He will be fine. We simply - had to make sure."  
"Make sure of what." Jaw clenched, a tightening of hands into fists.  
"That it wasn't you."  
Sherlock whirled around, his face a mask of fury that made Mycroft flinch. In one fluid motion Sherlock pulled Mycroft up by his shirt, pushed him hard against the wall and stated matter-of-factly: "I would very much like to hurt you now. But I would never hurt John."  
Another swirl of coattails, and Sherlock was through the door and inside John's hospital room.  
  
The room was dimly lit, and the smell of antiseptics made Sherlock's nose crinkle. Once inside, his back on the door as if he tried to keep Mycroft or, basically, anyone out, he stood indecisively, unsure of what he wanted now that he was there. He was the detective, not the doctor. He stood there for what seemed like forever, his brain, for once, not any help at all. What did one do when visiting a patient? He should have had brought flowers. But then, he didn't even know if John liked flowers. Had he ever seen John with flowers? Not counting the wilting bouquets he brought his various girlfriends for imagined or all too real slights, he couldn't remember seeing John with flowers. Should he have brought something else then? Fruit? He wasn't sure John was even able to eat. Sherlock fought the impulse to get out of the room, now that he knew John was still alive. Outside, he knew, Mycroft would be lurking.  
  
"Are you... going to stand there all day?" John's voice, weak, croaking, unused. It was as if a spell had been broken, and Sherlock's legs carried him over to the bed where his friend lay. He took in all that was John, the purple bruising on his face, crusted blood in his hair, the busted lip, the IVs and drainage and monitors. Bandages he knew must be under the covers, because that's where most of the damage had been done when he had been knived. He didn't know what to think, but he felt his legs give, and he sat gingerly down on John's bed. John's eyes met his, as kind as ever but so tired, and the damaged lips contorted into a crooked smile. Sherlock watched in fascination as the skin broke again and a single drop of blood emerged.  
For a long time, none spoke. Then, John managed: "'s good you're here." To Sherlock's horror, John closed his eyes, and John's hand, the one with the IV and the pulsox on, found his and weakly held on to his fingers, warm and slightly sticky with sweat.   
  
"This is what trust feels like", an ominous whisper behind him, and Sherlock didn't need to turn to know Mycroft had entered and used this moment, this moment of all, to lecture him on human emotion. "Not that you deserve it." Sherlock felt more than heard Mycroft retreat, and he felt shame burn in him hotter than the rage had burnt before.   
  
He studied John's sleeping face, slack and empty, eyes moving slightly behind closed lids. His breathing was laboured, as was to be expected. Sherlock looked down at the hand that now stuck to his more than held on to his, and he sorted John's fingers so that his shorter, stubbier fingers fit Sherlock's longer hands. His thumb traced the knuckles of John's hand, carefully, so not to wake him up. He sat like this for a long time, thinking.  
  
"I'm so sorry", he announced finally, but to whom, he did not know, John was clearly deeply asleep. A twitch of the slack hand he was holding told him otherwise, though. John rose to the surface of consciousness like a dolphin coming up for breath, and just as briefly. "I know", John murmured. Through crusted eyelids, he studied his friend, clearly stricken, Sherlock's head hung low and defeated. "C'me here", he told him gruffly and managed to pull him down to him into an awkward embrace, IV line tangling in Sherlock's unruly hair, before sliding down again into oblivion.  
  
  
  
"Should I have brought you flowers?"  
The question came from nowhere, really, but John knew exactly who that was. He cracked his eyes (swollen, crusted) open a slot and saw that Sherlock was still there, now in a chair next to his bed. He looked slightly maniacal, like he hadn't slept in days, but then, that wasn't unusual in Sherlock.  
"Flowers." John repeated, sceptically.  
"People bring flowers."  
"Nah. Not allowed."  
"Sweets then. Fruit?"  
"Can't even chew."  
"Oh."  
  
John closed his eyes during the exchange, and an undeterminable amount of time passed between this conversation and the next.  
  
"What do people bring then?"  
"Dunno."  
"You're a doctor. You should know."  
"Army doctor."  
"Oh."  
"Yeah."  
"A sidearm, then."  
John opened his eyes to study his flatmate critically and found his suspicion confirmed: Sherlock had indeed made a joke. "Ha. Funny."  
  
Even later.  
"I'm really sorry."  
"Still know. Not your fault."  
"Technically, yes. I was the one the assault was intended for. I should have warned you."  
"Meh."  
"What does that even mean?"  
"Huh?"  
"This 'meh'."  
John decided to climb a bit higher on the slippery boulder that was his consciousness, opened his eyes fully to look at his friend, and propped himself up laboriously on an elbow without straining his stitches too much. Sherlock looked like someone very close to breaking, as though only a thin veneer remained between sanity and utter desolation. He seemed like a violin string wound far too tight. John gathered his strength and explained: "'Meh' means might have happened anyway. Who knows. I don't. Don't blame you." As this didn't seem to unwind his friend, he added: "I'll be fine. Few more days here. You'll see." Sherlock looked mortified at the prospect of John staying even longer in this state. Exhausted, he let himself fall back on his pillow. "Not easy to kill, me. Now stop it. Talking hurts."   
John made a show of closing his eyes, indicating an end to all argument. To his great surprise, he felt Sherlock's hand settle lightly on his brow, while the other found his hand and held it tightly. John leaned into the touch without physically moving, and his many small and big pains faded a little bit.  
"See", he sighed, but not too low for Sherlock to hear, "this is what people do."  
  



End file.
